


M41.475 Father (The Magos ch 6.5)

by Sister of Silence (EmpressofMankind)



Series: Aegis of Atonement [9]
Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, Inquisition, Murder Mystery, inquisitors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressofMankind/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: An in-between chapter for the book ‘Magos’ which can be read between chapter 6 and 7. It functions as an introduction of Genevieve Allenbrisk and Brooks into the book setting. Third person but narrated from Drusher’s point of view.





	1. Birder

How could Eisenhorn have known? The thought wouldn’t leave Drusher alone. Garofar and he had spoken but not that loud. Drusher certainly hadn’t mentioned his retirement. He wandered along the battlements of Helter fortress, towards the crumbling eastern watchtower. It was sunny but the wind came down the Karanines carrying the chill of winter. It had stopped raining, for the time being. He was glad for that, perhaps he would go out beyond the decrepit castle. He halted to look out across the forest sprawling below. From somewhere nearby sounded the chac-chac of _Pica gershomi_ between the trees. Drusher smiled. Foul weather indeed. He squinted among the nearby foliage but could not spot the little fellow.  
  
Drusher continued along the battlements and climbed the winding stone stairs of the watchtower. What else did they want from him? The Inquisitor had sent them all from the cold room after Drusher had shared his expertise. No one had bothered to give him any further instructions. He wondered what Eisenhorn was up to. Plotting his next move, no doubt. Drusher was all but certain that he’d been right in his guess: they had already identified one of the bodies. Someone important? One of their own? He suppressed a shudder at the thought of another Inquisitor present, dead or not. Unbidden, it brought an old Guard rhyme to mind:  
  
‘One for trouble,  
Two for a plot.  
Three for an execution;  
Yours, more likely than not.’  
  
Macks had taught it to him, years ago. They had been drinking and it had seemed funny then. Eisenhorn clearly knew more than he let on but how much more? And how much did he know about Drusher? More than Drusher liked. How had he known about his thoughts on retirement? Drusher tried to shake the intrusive thought as he reached the top of the watchtower. Its roof was gone and so was most of the wall facing Helter keep. He heaved himself up on the crumbled wall and leaned his back against its sloping, stony embrace. He could see across the neglected rear courtyard and onward towards the distant Karanines. It was an excellent spot to watch the seasonal birds. He was settling in and had taken out his notebook to remark upon the forest magpie he had heard when voices drifted up from below.  
  
He couldn’t quite hear what they said but he recognised one of them: Eisenhorn’s flat baritone. The other belonged to a woman. She spoke with an accent he couldn’t place. Her vowels went unaspirated, her speech clear and fast. She strung her words with a melodic pitch and an r that rolled for days. He looked about the courtyard but didn’t spot them until he looked straight below. On the overgrown terrace at a cast iron table in the only strip of sunlight struggling past the cloud cover and fortress walls sat Eisenhorn, the woman across from him. She wore a high collared dress, or perhaps it was a coat, as dour in colour scheme as Eisenhorn’s attire. He couldn’t see her face for the tall, wide-brimmed hat she wore. They appeared to be enjoying lunch. Eisenhorn gestured with his fork as he spoke.   
  
Drusher didn’t mean to listen in but found himself trying to understand what they said. Who could she be? Another retainer? Eisenhorn seemed to have brought with him quite the entourage. When she reached across the table to put her hand across his, Drusher snapped his gaze away. Of all the things he’d come here to spot, that most certainly wasn’t one of them.   
  
“Why are you spying on mum.”  
  
Drusher flinched at the intrusion. It wasn’t a question but a demand. Clear and to the point: a statement by someone used to having their enquiries answered. He turned around, towards where the voice had come from. In the window of the only remaining wall sat a young woman. She stared at him over the edge of a large, leather-bound tome. Had she been there already? She must have been, judging by the studying detritus around her: sheafs of parchment with crow-footed notes on them accompanied by several pens, styli and a quill; a battered iSlate with detachable cogitator pad between two clunky data-banks with tangled wires; and a half-eaten starch bar and a plastek drink container beside an empty Re-cyclic H2O bottle. She must have been here for hours.  
  
“I, uh, wasn’t spying,” Drusher replied as he adjusted his glasses.  
  
“Yes, you were,” she declared as she uncurled herself from her window seat. She was tall and ghastly thin, the ancient book clutched in her slender arms as she strode towards him. In her old, over-sized commissarial-style coat and pointed black hat, she looked more like a runaway scarecrow than a teenage girl.  
  
“I hadn’t realised your mother and father were in the courtyard below,” Drusher clarified. The notion of Eisenhorn having a family seemed oddly bizarre to him. Cloistered by his job and dogged personality, Eisenhorn had seemed the type that would always be alone. Undoubtedly quasi-lamenting it while patting himself on the back for his sacrifice. Drusher looked at the young woman and tried to estimate her age. Her pale skin was smooth, her features without wrinkles and her hair a fiery red still. He thought she might be 19, or in her early 20’s? Perhaps of an age with the other bookworm, Audla. He wondered then if they might be sisters.  
  
She leaned towards him from her great height, her expression as menacing as her posture. “My father is Lord Inquisitor Tomàs de Torquemada-Coteaz, deceased M41.382; 93 years, 72 days and 5 hours ago. The greater demon Tre Mor murdered him on Prima Fossa in the closing days of the St. Aquilina de la Coeur Serré Crusades. Inquisitor Eisenhorn is my stepfather. This was not my choice to make.”  
  
They were all but nose-to-nose now. Well, Drusher thought. Definitely not in her early 20's then. That certainly explained a thing or two. Why did the name Coteaz sound familiar to him? Where had he heard it before? Or read, perhaps. He read a lot these days. “I wasn’t spying,” Drusher repeated. “I was merely curious as to whom Inquisitor Eisenhorn was speaking.”  
  
“He is speaking to my mother, Inquisitor Genevieve Helve Allenbrisk,” she said and gave him a look that made him suspect she thought him quite dim.  
  
“Yes, you told me.” Drusher frowned. She looked at him as if she were expecting some sort of a reaction. Wait, her mother was an Inquisitor as well? This was becoming entirely too many of them. Unbidden, the rhyme surfaced in his thoughts again. “I am sorry, your name is?”  
  
“Brooks,” the girl said. “Inquisitor Allenbrisk is a Chief Investigator of the Ordo Hereticus, Svarteldari Chamber, and a Radical Seeker Prime - those charged with the finding and solving of heterodoxal crimes within the Holy Ordos of the Emperor’s Inquisition. She has brought the radical Lord Inquisitor Costogue before the tribunal of Terra Formosa and arrested the fugitive corrupt cardinal Ivanka of Frostheim.”  
  
A bounty hunter. The lady Inquisitor was a bounty hunter. Drusher realised Brooks expected him to know the woman’s name and what these evidently highly noteworthy deeds encompassed. He didn’t, of course. And presently thought that if she was on a friendly footing with Eisenhorn, Drusher would rather stay well out of her way. Birds of a kind and feather, flock and fly together.  
  
“You don’t have to be afraid, Magos.” Brooks smiled in what she no doubt thought was a reassuring manner. “Mum only puts bad people on the pyre.”  
  
“What a relief.” Drusher adjusted his glasses. He wondered if ‘bad people’ was defined in the same manner as ‘classified’.  
  
“Why are you here?” Brooks demanded. She’d straightened to her full height and stared down at him.  
  
“What? To be outside, watch birds,” Drusher responded, confused.  
  
“No, why have you come here,” she specified impatiently. “Here, to Helter fortress.”  
  
“It very much wasn’t by choice, I’ll have you know,” Drusher said, his tone indignant. “They lifted me from my bed in the middle of the night and forced me to come.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Brooks objected.  
  
“To be perfectly honest,” Drusher conceded. “Neither do I”.  
  
“Mum may be an Heresiarchaeologist but she has studied under Layla Lan, Archmagos Paleobiologis Genetus Prime of Glovoda. She could have joined the Martian priesthood as an Adjutor Tertium to Archmagos Lan, but she didn’t wish to leave her duties to the Holy Ordos,” Brooks explained in excruciating detail.  
  
Now, thát was a name Drusher knew. Archmagos Lan was well known among Magi Biologis across the Imperium. She had unravelled the mysteries of palaeogenetic data-retrieval from ancient biological material. Her work had made it possible to return long fallen Astartes to their chapters. It had also led to controversy, as there were those who wished to use it on the Emperor’s mortal remains. If it had been in his nature to kill, Drusher would have killed for even a lay adapt position at the Archmagos’ feet. Adjutor Tertium? The vast majority of their colleagues didn’t even make it past Adjutor Quintus. It was an immense honour and Allenbrisk had declined it to do… whatever it is the Inquisition does, exactly. Other than strike fear into the hearts of perfectly law-abiding Imperial citizens such as himself. Were all Inquisitors like her and Eisenhorn? He had no wish to find out.  
  
“She has the expertise necessary to identify what happened to these bodies, and where, and rule out the action of mere bears,” Brooks continued, quite unperturbed. “And I could have synthesised all additional data if she hadn’t already possessed this knowledge.”  
  
So that was why Eisenhorn hadn’t been surprised by Drusher’s analysis: it had corroborated findings Eisenhorn had already established with a colleague. Despite himself, Drusher found he wanted to meet her - Inquisitor or not - for he hadn’t realised until that very moment how much he’d missed conversing with someone of similar expertise. “Can I meet her?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.  
  
Brooks gave him a long look as if she, personally, was the metric by which it was decided whom Allenbrisk would or would not have an audience with. “Certainly.”  
  
She picked up her iSlate, cogitator pad and data-banks, packing them into a battered suitcase along with her notes, writing utensils and foodstuff. She packed the tome last, wrapping it in a piece of cloth before putting it on top of her belongings. The brown, hard leather exterior of the suitcase was decorated with stickers and several purity seals. After closing its many straps she wrapped an exaggeratedly thick chain around it with a large, old-fashioned key lock. The suitcase looked heavy.  
  
“Do you want help with that?” Drusher offered.  
  
“No,” Brooks replied as she heaved it onto her back by the shoulder straps. “This way.”  
  
Drusher followed her down the watchtower’s stairs. They traversed the battlements to the other side and descended another flight of stairs into the wall corridor. They passed several doors before entering a study. The room had been cleaned but not restored. The carpet across the uneven stone floor was threadbare but fresh straw mats had been put down. The gilded frame of the landscape painting had been polished but the antique wooden desk remained cracked with age. Several tomes, parchment sheaves, a map, dividers and compass laid on its scuffed surface. A second chair had been pulled up beside the desk chair.  The fireplace was unlit and free of ash, but the upholstery of the couches in the lounge corner had faded beyond recognition. On the claw-footed coffee table stood two glasses - one with an elaborately slotted spoon on it - laid an ornate bolt pistol and a deck of queer, crystal cards.    
  
Brooks crossed the study towards the opened patio doors. Drusher could see the terrace and its occupants beyond. He was struck by how seamlessly the Inquisitors blend into their surroundings. In her high, tapered hat and fashionably cut redingote, Allenbrisk looked as if she had just returned from a morning horse riding in the countryside, to have lunch with Eisenhorn. Who himself looked as if he’d stepped out of one of the great hall’s state portraits, meticulously dressed in vest and cravat as he was. His Inquisitorial seal was pinned at his throat, by way of a tie-pin. Only then did Drusher notice she sported a similar device, fastened to the decorative band of her hat. It was different in design but he recognised the thrice barred I. Without those sigils Drusher would not have been able to pick them out of a crowd of Karanine gentry, which put the wary right back in him. When first meeting Eisenhorn, he’d thought you’d know the minute he - or any Inquisitor - entered the room. To Drusher’s disquiet, that didn’t appear to be the case.  
  
“Inquisitor Allenbrisk, Magos Drusher wishes to speak with you,” Brooks announced as they stepped outside.


	2. Lifer

“What about, dear?” Allenbrisk asked as she put her utensils down and turned to face them.

The second she turned around, Drusher recognised her. How could he not? Her pict had graced every Imperial vidcast for a year straight. She was older now, her rosy features subtly lined near the eyes and mouth, her hair a light grey, but her appearance still held the warmth and beauty of a sunny winter day. A smattering of freckles covered her round cheekbones and small, upturned nose. Her eyes were bright, shaped as marquise diamonds of glacial ice. Their upward slant gave the impression of a perpetual smile. Her features had been engraved into their collective consciousness when she had married the Lord Protector of the Formosa sector, Lord Inquisitor… de Torquemada-Coteaz. The name finally clicked home as his mind dredged up an image of the tall, bald crusader. Inquisitor Allenbrisk and her husband had spend nigh on ten years attending wedding celebrations in their honour. Trillions had watched the live-vid documentaries religiously. Drusher had too, though if he was perfectly honest more for the in-depth locality information that the famous couple. He recalled then Brooks mentioned Coteaz had passed away.

“I’m sorry, madame Inquisitor, my condolences,” Drusher offered.

A curious but sad expression stole the sparkle from her eyes. Drusher realised it had been decades. A life time. He’d been a young man. Seeing the raw edge of lingering grief, he regretted mentioning it.

She inclined her head. “Thank you, Magos.”

“Magos Drusher wishes to academically socialise with you, Inquisitor Allenbrisk,” Brooks answered. She was giving Drusher that menacing stare again.

Allenbrisk smiled, a small dent appearing in her left cheek. “I think that can be arranged. Right now, Magos?”

“Oh, well, yes? I mean, only if it suits you, madame,” Drusher fumbled as he glanced at Eisenhorn. As ever, nothing was readable from the Inquisitor’s face. Drusher was keenly aware of having interrupted their privacy.

“It suits me,” Allenbrisk said as she dabbed her lips with a napkin. Both Inquisitors rose, though Eisenhorn with considerably more difficulty. No longer wearing his jacket and overcoat, the extent of his augmetics was undeniable. They braced both his legs and enclosed his hips in a supporting structure. The glint of metal behind his cravat suggested they ran up along his spine to brace the base of his skull. Drusher had seen his share of injuries in the Guard. You didn’t wear braces like that for no reason. He wondered who - or what - Eisenhorn had tangled with to sustain such injuries.

Allenbrisk walked around the table as Eisenhorn turned to leave. She took his hand to attract his attention and leaned towards him. It wasn’t a kiss, exactly, more a touching of cheeks. He gave her hand a light squeeze before she let go.

“Brooks, with me,” Eisenhorn said as he strode past them and disappeared inside. She glanced at Allenbrisk, who nodded barely perceptible.

“Yes, Inquisitor Eisenhorn,” Brooks answered and followed him out. 

And just like that, they were alone. Drusher tried to appreciate the fact that he wasn’t just in strange company, but also in famous company - the once-in-a-life-time sort of company that many only dreamed of. It was terribly difficult on account of her work comprising not only the analysing of archaeobiological matter but putting whomever she may please on a stack of wood and burning them alive.

“It has been some time since someone has recognised me,” Allenbrisk said conversationally as she led him inside and indicated one of the old couches. “Please, sit. Would you like something to drink, Magos? Recaf? Leaf water?”

“Recaf would be good,” Drusher answered as he sat down. “And truly, I apologise for reminding you of your husband’s passing. I meant neither to intrude nor to cause you grief.”

“Every morning I wake up without him, I am reminded of his passing, Magos,” she remarked as she sat down across from him. Her expression was friendly, but unreadable. It occurred to Drusher that the latter may well be a characteristic of Inquisitors in general, rather than Eisenhorn in particular. He could see how it would be an useful skill.

Just then a servoskull came zooming into the study, holding a tin of recaf while pouring a second one from the dispenser replacing its lower jaw. “Miss Brooks told me you have worked with Archmagos Lan,” Drusher said as he accepted the tin of recaf the servoskull held out on a spindly limb.

“A very fruitful time,” Allenbrisk replied. “I learnt much from the Archmagos.”

“May I ask what you sought to learn?” Drusher asked tentatively. He fully expected to hear that this was classified information. “I have always found the genetic reconstruction of a biological specimen fascinating.”

“I wished to learn of her procedures to identify and retrieve genetic information from very ancient specimen, and to adapt it for my own work,” Allenbrisk answered to Drusher’s surprise.

“How would you apply such knowledge?” Drusher asked before he could catch himself. “I mean no offence, madam Inquisitor, but I don’t understand. How does someone in your, uh, line of work, require such expertise?”

“Why does a bounty hunter need ancient genetic data-retrieval techniques, indeed?” Allenbrisk smiled. Drusher flinched at her word choice. “My quarries are all very much alive. That is usually the problem with them, after all,” she continued, genuine amusement sparkling in her blue eyes. “Why would I need a crash course in gene-typing, never mind of palaeogenetic material, hm.”

“Precisely so,” Drusher nodded as he adjusted his glasses.

“It shows a lack of understanding of the full scope of my tasks as an Inquisitor, which I can’t hold against you as a layperson. My colleagues are a secretive lot,” she said after a sip from her recaf. But not you, it seems, Drusher thought. The servoskull hovered beside her, proffering a small box of weathered metal. She waved it off. “The progress of time can be… peculiar, in my line of work. Evidence may turn up of great age, or may hinge on being of great age to provide proof of the crime committed.”

The servoskull zoomed around to Drusher and offered him the box in turn. Nested in preservation foil and crispy purple paper laid odd sized, cloudy white clumps of crystals. It took Drusher a long moment to realise what they were: sugar crystals. Actual sugar in solid form, and quite pure by their colour. He selected a small clump and the servoskull picked it with silvered tweezers and dropped it in his tin. Drusher watched it dissolve. “I still don’t quite understand,” Drusher admitted. He took a sip of recaf and marvelled at the profound change in taste. It had taken the strong tang off the recaf but had not dimmed its flavour.

“Perhaps an example will help,” Allenbrisk remarked. “A corrupt colleague may deal in false relics - recent parts made to look old through chemical processes, or even old parts retrieved illegally,” Allenbrisk explained. “With the Archmagos’ teachings I am able to prove their falsehood, even return them to their rightful place.”

That sounded very noble to Drusher. Certainly, he knew Inquisitors worked in the Imperium - and therefor all of their - best interest. It was just hard to remember when on the receiving end of the attentions of someone like Eisenhorn. He liked Allenbrisk a lot better. Not that it was hard. Eisenhorn was about as likable as a molting vulture. “Have you gotten a lot of use from your knowledge?” Drusher asked. He was beginning to feel quite comfortable.

“Enough to consider it a worthwhile investment of time in retrospect,” Allenbrisk replied. “And you, Magos, has your stay on this planet and the creation of your taxonomy been fulfilling?”

That was an excellent question and not one that Drusher had an immediate answer to. “Yes,” he decided. “It has been fulfilling. That is, the task set to me: the creation of the taxonomy.”

Inquisitor Allenbrisk observed him in silence, looking at him over the rim of her recaf tin as she took a sip. No, not quite at him but slightly higher. As if there was something she could read on his forehead. “But not the accommodations?” she asked.

“The quiet and solitude was nice, at first,” Drusher admitted. “It turned into isolation and I convinced myself it was what I wanted.”

“You could have changed that,” Allenbrisk observed. 

“I had a task to finish,” Drusher bristled. Inquisitor Allenbrisk smiled, though he couldn’t discern the reason for it.

“Don’t feel passed over Magos,” Allenbrisk reassured him. “The Archmagos owed me a favour. Your work is impressive, very comprehensive.” 

The apprenticeship may have been a forced favour but the offer of indenture most certainly hadn’t been. The Martian priesthood didn’t offer such things lightly. Wait, she’d read his work? “You have seen my work?” Drusher asked, genuinely surprised.

“Parts of it,” Allenbrisk said. “Brooks has read it and she has shown me several relevant passages pertaining to our case as well as some of your best sketches. In particular your rendering of the Aquila chrysaetos gershomi.”

The local golden eagle, it had come here ages ago with the first Imperial settlers. It had thrived since and evolved somewhat, in particular its plumage had become lighter. However, it was unmistakably closely related to its Terran cousin even now. It would be interesting to compare their genetic-data and elucidate the precise differences. It didn’t surprise Drusher that she liked the image, the eagle species were always popular.

“I liked the animal’s posture, the way it cocks its head with inquisitive intelligence,” Inquisitor Allenbrisk added. “It’s such a typical mannerism, often overlooked by most lithographers’ desire to show the animal’s majesty, rather than nature.”

“I prefer depicting them as you might see them in the wild, there’s plenty iconography of them already,” Drusher agreed. “Are you familiar with their handling?”

“My late husband kept an Aquila chrysaetos bicephalia,” Inquisitor Allenbrisk replied by way of an explanation. “It was psy-bonded to him by Archmagos Lan, an honour in return for routing corruption from among those serving her.”

Drusher glanced about, as if half expecting to see the enormous two-headed raptor sitting on a perch nearby. They could live up to two hundred years. “What became of it?”

A sad look briefly crossed the Inquisitor her face. “It went mad with grief,” she answered. “It’s common with bonded animals, they don’t understand the absence of their master’s mind-link.”

“It was put down?” Drusher exclaimed in shocked tones.

“Dear Emperor, no,” Allenbrisk replied. “No, I could never. She’s a fine animal, served us for decades. A chance at recovery is the least I can give her, even if it’s a slim chance.”

“That’s a relief to hear, they are quite rare these days,” Drusher said. “A traumatised animal may recover, given time and care. A familiar surrounding is important.”

“She stays at his estate on Enceladus. My late husband’s Crusader Brothers and Sisters, who maintain it in our absence, look after her,” Allenbrisk said, her gaze distant as she looked upon the memory. “There is a statue of him there, erected in his honour in the wake of the Ovidian Crusades.” She smiled. “He loathed it so much? But one cannot decline a gift from the Cardinal Bishop of Magerit Cardinalis, no matter how tacky.”

“She’s at home, then,” Drusher surmised.

“She is,” Allenbrisk agreed. “They tell me she’s wont to sit on the statue for hours on end. Perched on his right shoulder as she would in life. She attacked it before, but now she just sits there.”

Even though Drusher knew no one involved, that image was heartbreaking. Poor creature.

“Your life sketches are very skillful,” Allenbrisk said, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between them. “Have you ever considered pursuing a lithography career?”

“I did at one point, but my skill is not quite great enough to distinguish myself from others,” Drusher admitted. “However, the recording and categorising of life forms affords me ample opportunity to draw.”

“Perhaps Archmagos Lan could use someone with your eye for detail to render biological structures in pen or pict,” Inquisitor Allenbrisk observed.

Was that an offer? Drusher couldn’t deny that was something he’d desire. Who wouldn’t? He shifted in his seat, vaguely uncomfortable under her gaze despite her smile. Why would she make him an offer? She’d made no request of him. Eisenhorn had made no mention of a return on Drusher’s time, though the interrogator had said they’d help him get off world. But this? This was off-world and then some.

“That would certainly be a very worthy vocation,” he agreed diplomatically. ‘Never let them notice you want something, they’ll pluck you,’ Macks had once told him. Granted, it had been about pict-icon vendors, not Inquisitors. What could they possibly pluck him for? The intrusive thought surfaced again. How had Eisenhorn known about his retirement plans? How had she known he’d be intrigued by a chance to study under Archmagos Lan?

“Indeed it is,” Allenbrisk said as she sipped her recaf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such, it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it! And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


	3. Keener

“I didn’t know you had remarried,” Drusher remarked then, in an attempt to keep the conversation going.

“Are you sure you were paying attention, Magos?” Allenbrisk remarked, again a smile playing around her lips as she swirled the content of her recaf tin. It sounded like a jest. She wasn’t wrong, he hadn’t exactly followed Imperial news. Her tone turned serious then. “There was a little tiff among the Lords Malleus at the time. They perennially forget that I am a person, and not of their Ordo at that.”

“I suppose I hadn’t, I’ve been rather focused on my taxonomy,” Drusher admitted. He could guess what that ‘tiff’ had entailed. Coteaz had possessed wealth, material and otherwise: assets and knowledge plenty would be interested in having for themselves. He suspected every ambitious Inquisitorial bachelor of any sexes within astropathic earshot had made a move the minute the news broke. And, no doubt, they all considered Eisenhorn a poor choice. Drusher didn’t particularly disagree. The contrast between her late husband and current one was stark. He’d read an article once, in the Proceedings of the Terran Academy of Sciences, that had investigated trauma coping mechanisms of veteran Imperial Guardsmen and -women. It had shown some coped by purposefully seeking out the opposite. He recalled then that Brooks had implied Coteaz had fallen in battle. Slain by a daemon, she’d said. Had Allenbrisk been there? Drusher suppressed a shudder.

“It was a quiet event, with friends,” Allenbrisk said. “There was little coverage, even within the Scarus sector.” Her smile deepened as her gaze became distant. “Which was as we wanted it.”

Drusher observed her for a moment. She seemed lost in thought. “I recall the news from the Crusades though they were vague at the time. It must have been a blow to the Formosa sector, your late husband was popular for someone in your line of work.”

Inquisitor Allenbrisk’s gaze snapped back to the present and focused, swift as a hawk, on Drusher when he spoke up. Her expression settled back into pleasant neutrality a beat later. “My colleagues in the Ordo Malleus often are,” she agreed, her hands around her recaf mug, fingers laced. “Internal prosecution is rife with points of view. Even against the Xenos, there is leeway for perspective. But Daemons? It’s ever crystal clear who is in the right there.”

“It attracts an uncompromising mentality,” Drusher ventured. “A lack of nuance.”

“Does it?” she wondered. “Or does the Warp simply weed out those inclined to listen.”

That was an excellent point. “Perhaps, a combination of both? It’s often thus in nature, where a particular niche both attracts and hones a particular species.”

“They certainly thrive,” she added, a hint of exasperation in her tone. Drusher wasn’t sure if it was on account of the boisterous flamboyance of her colleagues or their conversation. “I imagine if someone made a study of it, you could turn out to be quite correct, Magos.”

Drusher felt flattered despite himself. After Inquisitor Eisenhorn’s condescending manner, it was nice to have his input valued for its own merit.

“Compared to the other Ordos Majoris, the Malleus ethos seems straight forward, sensible and ever justified. Their wars are grand against great enemies, the stuff normally reserved for Astartes legends. They place these feats closer to home, within the realm of possibility for you and I. You can go your entire life without ever having learned the name of any one from my Ordo, and the few that have no doubt consider anyone who avoided it lucky, but I am willing to bet almost everyone can name at least one Lord of the Ordo Malleus because they’ve recently seen them on a news vid.” She smiled fondly, as if at a pleasant memory. “My late husband was successful, not only because he had no wish to rule, but because he was charismatic and he knew how to show it in front of a vidcaster.”

“That sounds an awful lot like manipulation,” Drusher frowned.

“We manipulate our environment and each other every minute of our lives, Magos. You, more than most people, I would expect to be aware of that,” she remarked. A curious expression momentarily replaced her perpetual smile. “Unless we stop and think about it, we rarely realize how much so.” 

“I suppose I am? You seem well aware of it in yourself, and in those around you,” Drusher considered. His mind wandered back to his exchange with Eisenhorn. And the fleeting intimacy he'd glimpsed between the inquisitors. For every action, a reaction. 

“It is my job to be aware of these things, Magos.” Her smile had returned. “They are the threads that weave the purpose of peoples’ actions.”

“Are all of your actions deliberate?” Drusher asked before he could quite stop himself. He adjusted his glasses as he glanced away.

“Aren’t yours?” Her expression was kind but unreadable. “Even actions that may seem unintentional have an underlying purpose. Even actions that may seem spontaneous have a design. Whether or not you’re conscious of them is a matter of training, not sincerity.”

Drusher considered her words. They seemed reasonable though their deterministic undercurrent didn’t agree with him.

“You do not bring peace to an entire sector with good intentions alone. You have to have a friendly smile,” Allenbrisk continued. Though she seemed amused, Drusher didn’t think she was joking. “No matter how pure your intentions, how selfless your plans, if people don’t like you, they won’t let you. People don’t want to be told they’re safe, they want to be reassured they are safe.”

Drusher nodded. There was truth to it. You needed people's trust. And yet, charisma was the tool of saints and tyrants alike. There was power there, immense power.

“As human beings, we like to think we know what we are doing. But as inquisitors, we have to know with absolute certainty. Not just our own lives but often the fate of a community, whole hives, entire planets even, depend on us being able to oversee the consequences of actions.”

“I don’t think I could do it,” Drusher said. There was too much responsibility there for his liking. Too much depending on him making the right call. It was not a skill he was known for.

“Few can and plenty who think they can, fail.” She indicated herself. “It is why I have to do what I do.” Drusher frowned but then recalled Brooks had said her mother hunted and prosecuted colleagues that had broken doctrine. It put the damper right back on their pleasant conversation. Her smile deepened as her gaze drifted away from him. “I admit Tomàs had flair, he was in his element at the forefront of a battle line as much as in front of a crowd. I have found it’s common among Formosa’s people.”

Drusher smiled wryly. “I suppose people want to be entertained, almost as much as they want to be reassured.”

“Certainly those who believe danger to be far from their home,” she replied as her smile evaporated. She frowned and took a sip of recaf.

Drusher wondered how the Formosa sector fared these days. “Who holds the seat now?”

“Someone else,” she replied rather curtly. “The good men do is often interred with their bones.”

He presumed that to mean she didn't approve of whomever currently held his or her wing over the sector. “Did you not wish to continue his work?” She had sounded so involved to Drusher, he’d thought she’d have built upon her late husband’s legacy.

Her nose wrinkled at his comment and for a moment he feared he’d offended her, their pleasant conversation forfeit. “It’s his life work, Magos, not mine,” was her resolute answer.

“You speak as if he might yet walk among us,” Drusher observed. He regretted his words when the sadness returned to her eyes, her gaze distant once more.

She laid her hand across the medallion resting on her chest. It was a St. Aquilina’s cross, finely rendered, similar in size to the episcopal Aquila bishops wore. “He ever walks with me, Magos.”

“Miss Brooks seems very dedicated, too,” Drusher remarked. The young woman had wasted no time impressing this upon Drusher with her meticulous information on her parents.

“That she is,” Allenbrisk agreed.

“May I ask what her precise function is within your, hum, work method?” Drusher asked as he drank his recaf. He looked at the few gulps left to him and wondered if she might offer him another or if their conversation would be finished along with his recaf. Despite everything, he realized he enjoyed her company.

“Think of her as an Interweb query engine,” Allenbrisk said.

Drusher frowned. “The information retrieval algorithms of the Galaxy Wide Web, you mean?” Drusher returned. It was a curious analogue to make.

Allenbrisk nodded. “Just so. I ask her a query and she retrieves it from her mental storage, sorted to probable relevancy.”

“That sounds very useful,” Drusher observed. And a little implausible, even for a savant-child, he thought. Perhaps the analogue was an oversimplification, he doubted any human being had the mental capacity to rival a logic engine. However, he could see how even an approximation would be immensely useful when you frequent low-tech planets without access to the Intergalactic Imperial Net or when you didn't want to leave any signs of digital presence that accessing it might leave.

“It is,” Allenbrisk agreed. “Brooks retains everything she reads and can reproduce it verbatim, including source and document statistics, if necessary. The more she reads, the better she can aid my investigations with knowledge that would be impossible for me to otherwise have at my immediate disposal. She is a young but very talented savant. And a sweet child.” The last sentence held an all but tangible threat as to what would happen if someone would harm her.

Drusher made a mental note to not get in the girl’s way. He had no wish to find out what her mother considered ‘harm’ nor how offenders would be dealt with. They were silent for a few minutes as they drank the last of their recaf. Drusher tried to process everything he’d learned - far more than he’d thought. It was good to know the two Inquisitors’ definition of ‘classified’ seemed to differ.

“Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to humor me,” Drusher commented at last. It felt prudent to make sure she knew he appreciated their conversation. He’d remembered he’d interrupted her private lunch with Inquisitor Eisenhorn. He had no idea how often they made time for that. Not often, he imagined. No doubt due to Eisenhorn. “I didn’t think you would answer any of my questions, Inquisitor Eisenhorn certainly didn’t.”

A smile returned to her face at his words. “Gregor has never been keen on strangers.”

“So it certainly seems,” Drusher agreed. “May I ask how did you meet?”

Allenbrisk chuckled, quite amused. “Now thát,” she said. “Is classified.”

Drusher flinched but recovered. It was entirely possible that Eisenhorn had told her. He was tired and it was beginning to affect him.

There was a knock at the study’s door then. “Do enter,” Allenbrisk called. The door promptly opened and Drusher flinched again. He’d expected Eisenhorn but that wasn’t who stood in the door opening. Instead, it was filled out by an immensely tall man in thickly plated armour. His head clean shaven and his eyes a wintery grey amid hawkish features. Text was tattooed on the right side of his face, scripture by the look of it. Drusher realised he must be looking at an Astartes. He fancied that, in passing, he possessed a similarity to Eisenhorn. It was ridiculous, of course, but he could see it if he squinted just so.

The Astartes beheld Drusher for a moment, pursed his lips and ignored him, turning to Allenbrisk. “Inquisitor.”

“Adeodatus, I apologise, I’ve not been mindful of the time,” Allenbrisk said as she rose. “Allow me to briefly introduce you.”

Both Astartes and Inquisitor turned their attention on Drusher and he wanted to sink into the floorboards, the urge to flee visceral and real.

“Magos Drusher, this is Chaplain Adeodatus of the Angels Palatine”.

The Astartes didn’t deign to respond and instead levelled a gaze on Drusher that felt like an attempt to skewer his soul. 

“Its an honour,” Drusher said with a quick bow. Was that what you said when meeting one of the Legionnes Astartes? He hoped that’s what you said.

The Chaplain’s gaze didn’t waver. In fact, Drusher didn’t think he’d blinked since looking at him. Creepy.

“I must leave you, Magos,” Allenbrisk excused herself. “It’s time for midday observances.” She smiled then. “Past time, even.”

Drusher nodded. He hadn’t a clue what to say in parting. The Chaplain was already out the door. Allenbrisk moved to follow. “Why did you remarry?” he blurted.

She halted, pausing on the threshold. “I care about him, Magos,” she said as she glanced back at him across her shoulder. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

Drusher was silent for a moment. “Yes, actually.”

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such, it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it! And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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